“No; I had writing to do.” As he spoke his countenance darkened. “Olive,” he said, looking at her with sorrowful, questioning eyes.
“Well, dear papa.”
“Nothing—nothing. Is the carriage ready?”
“Not yet. You will have time just for one little thing—'twill take only a minute,” said Olive, persuasively.
“What is it, little one?”
“Mamma is asleep—she was tired and ill; but if you would run up-stairs, and kiss her once again before you go, it would make her so much happier—I know it would.”
“Poor Sybilla!” he muttered, remorsefully, and quitted the room slowly—not meeting his daughter's eyes; but when he came back, he took her in his arms, very tenderly.
“Olive, my child in whom I trust, always remember I did love you—you and your mother.”
These were the last words she heard him utter, ere he went away.